A Touch of Luck
by ramblingonandon
Summary: "There is a destiny that makes us brothers; none goes his way alone. All that we send into the lives of others, comes back onto our own." - Edwin Markham
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I've been trying to find my voice for my other story so this was an exercise to get into that. It was a one-shot that got too long so I've decided to cut it off into separate chapters and share it with the lovely people here. But that means the chapters will be small. On the plus side it's mostly done, only the last part is left so updates might be quick.**

 **I tried a different writing style in this one and I apologize if it comes off as clunky; probably won't be using this style again.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own anything recognizable in this story, not making any money either.**

 **Happy reading...**

* * *

He doesn't remember the first breath he drew, doesn't remember the days that followed, the months that they became; but his first memory is of the sound of hooves drawing a carriage to their house and the grim blue eyes of his father that turned to him as his mother's voice ordered the maid to take him away.

It is the first of many.

The order remains the same.

Athos stays out of sight.

Each time he is ushered away Athos is confused. He dares not disobey, except that one time – when he had come out to play with the children under the tree in the back garden. The parents of those children had come out for their departure and Athos, forgetting he is not to be seen joins the rushing children of their guests.

It is later in the night, much later when the Comte's anger had dissipated and the Comtesse's tears had dried, that Athos finds the courage borne of a smarting back and he demands answers. He slams his small fists against the locked door and screams himself hoarse wanting to know why.

Why, he would later realize is not something he should have wanted to know.

But that is only after his mother comes to him in the morning, sits down on the edge of the giant bed he is curled up on and explains why he's always spirited away when they have company. Explains how she had been born as one touched with luck, just like his father, just like him.

They are of the few whom luck has marked out to define.

She pushes up the dainty sleeve of her dress and Athos' eyes widen at the words curling down from the crook of her elbow towards her wrist.

" _To rule_ ," Athos reads.

"Yes," she says, "something that luck has touched your father with as well, on my right arm and his left. Those who are touched by luck can read what luck has bestowed upon others whom it had touched."

Being still too young, too naïve, Athos hurries to roll up his sleeves and his lips wobble at finding them blank. His mother's smile is not a happy one, he is not too naïve to not make note of that. His stomach flutters as she guides him to the long mirror in his room and standing behind him she holds up a smaller mirror in one hand while she raises the hair at the back of his head with the other.

It is there.

Curled around the back of his neck, like a thick black chain.

" _To serve_ ," he mutters.

Like a thick, black, heavy chain that pushes his head and his gaze down.

"We do not know who is one of us and who isn't," his mother says, "but we cannot risk them knowing."

He understands.

From that day on Athos only watches the children from behind curtained windows of cold rooms and finds company in the thick volumes lining his father's chilly library. When he is taken to meet his new brother he prays that luck had been kind to him. He sees the words on the tiny left arm, words exactly like those of their parents.

Athos feels his heart soar and fall to earth in a thundering crash.

He knows that his brother in the end would not hold him in regard, would want him tucked out of the way just like his parents.

Because he is _To serve_.

So he obeys his father and obeys the position he is born to serve. He will be the face of his family until he would hand over his title to his younger brother. The laws of man may allow him to inherit his father's place but luck had not deemed him worthy. He is only _To serve,_ nothing more.

When he comes out to meet the world as the first born of the Comte he wears his hair just a bit longer than the other young men his age and if he always has a scarf tied about his neck it only adds to the arrogance that is his armour.

But the weight of the words at the back of his neck is always a reminder of his place in life.

Luck has left him defenseless and unworthy.

* * *

Meeting Anne is a revelation.

Her kisses burn away the words from his mind when he finds the courage to show them to her.

And he falls deeper in love.

With her laugh, with her fire, with her zest, he falls in love with her and the words curled like a bejeweled pendant around her throat.

" _To live,_ " they declare to the world.

And he follows her into life.

Until she brings death.

He cannot look at his parents' portraits, their stilled eyes carving into his skin and he cannot look at his brother, cold in the ornate casket. His world is collapsing around his ears, crumbling under his feet. The only truth left to hang on to is the choking grip of luck on his neck. He knows his place, he is _To serve_ and he serves the crown and the law and orders the death of his murderous wife.

And he promises himself to never again be brought to his knees like this.

* * *

It is only when he's stumbling out on the cobblestone road, a rapier in one hand and a rapidly emptying bottle of wine in the other that he wonders if he had committed a crime against luck. She was meant _To live_ and he had ordered it not to be so.

Her presence becomes a curse sewn to his soles like an ever present shadow.

She was meant _To live_.

It would be years and years later that he'll find the true strength of those words, declaring their power from beyond the scar of the noose. But for the moment he wishes that he could tear off the mark of his servitude from his neck, he wants to wash it away with his blood but he's just too good with his blade.

His drunken duels end with spilled blood but it's hardly ever his own.

"Are you who they call Athos?"

The haze in his view is not helped by the clouds shifting over the moon. It takes him longer than he'd like to look at the man standing a few feet away.

"Who's asking?"

"I'm Captain Treville of his majesty's Musketeers,"

The wine is warm on his tongue; the glass is cool on his lips.

Athos lowers the bottle.

"What're you doing in Pinon?" he asks.

"You are in Paris,"

He looks to his right and then his left.

Tightly packed buildings loom over the narrow street he's in. It's disconcerting to some piece of him not soaked in wine that he doesn't know where he is or how he got here. He doesn't remember when he started walking and he has no plans to stop.

He plans instead to walk across the world and fall off its edge.

"I believe you could be a good addition to my regiment," the Captain speaks up.

 _To serve_ , supplies his mind.

"Never!" he snarls.

The shift of the pommel in his grip is too natural for him to pay it any mind. His stance is perfect as he covers the distance, the blade only an arching gleam in the darkness. It is a hairbreadth's away from the man's neck when blocked.

Athos knows that the Captain is armed.

He expects him to fight back, to draw, to defend.

But it's not him whose blade rests against his own.

Athos glances to the side and catches the soft smirk on the new man's face; it's like a gleam of a dagger amidst the shimmer of silk. The face is too young but the eyes are too old and Athos is transfixed like he would be on a pair of glowing embers.

"The Captain only wishes to talk," says the man.

"I will not serve," Athos puts pressure behind his rapier.

The man doesn't relent; he slides the edge of his blade against Athos' own, steps before the Captain and their pommels clang as their swords lock across each other. He will only remember the thrill of the challenge and the rage of it in the duel that follows. The man out of the shadows matches him blow for blow until Athos trips on something hard under his heel.

The night tilts on its axis, the blade lunges for the side of his chest, but the thrust is diverted at the last minute with a precision that Athos would appreciate had he been sober. It's a harsh jolt that stops him from falling backwards. His burning breaths are caught in his throat, his head swims from the jerk to his neck but his opponent had caught him by the front of his shirt before it can smack into the wall behind him.

The same hand pulls him forward onto his wobbly knees.

The man still has his rapier at his side in his other hand.

The blade is lowered, out mind for the moment but not out of reach.

"Easy brother," the man steadies him.

But Athos' brother is dead.

His wife murdered him.

Athos swings his fist and busts the man's lip with his punch.

The hold doesn't falter.

And there's no retaliating blow.

"Let him go Aramis," says the Captain.

Athos expects to be shoved back into the wall. His eyes water when he is gently settled back against it. His breath hitches when the hand remains on his chest as he slides down and he finds himself staring at this stranger crouching before him.

Aramis swipes his tongue over his bleeding lower lip, turns his face to the side and spits red.

The smirk is still elusive, still a touch deadly and Athos doesn't understand why the man would not deliver on the promise of violence he can see in the flashing upturn of his damaged lips.

"You have turned into quite the legend Athos," The Captain walks over to them, "they're calling you the best swordsman in France. But I can tell you this; the trail of duels you've left in your wake can lead you to prison or to my garrison. It's your choice."

"I will not serve," he repeats.

"There are worse things than serving the crown," the Captain says.

"And I'm supposed to serve the crown in a regiment whose Captain is out recruiting drunkards from the streets?" Athos snorts, "Are you that desperate Captain Treville? What drove you so low? Don't tell me you suddenly lost all your men."

The Captain's blue eyes harden, even in the dim glow of pasty moonlight Athos can tell that.

But it's the way Aramis pulls back from him that douses his rage. He doesn't want to dwell on how he misses the support of the hand on his chest. Athos thumps his head back against the wall and closes his eyes.

He opens them in the Musketeers' garrison.

There's a terrible pounding in his head, gut-churning but familiar.

He bites back a groan as swirling heat clenches in his stomach.

Hands grasp him by the shoulders and ease him up.

Wine and bile gushes past his lips and Athos wonders why he isn't falling in the puddle like he's used to.

It is only when his vision clears that he notices another pair of boots next to his own. His head is still bent, his body trembling with the aftershocks that usually snap the firmness of his spine. But this time the grip on his shoulders would not let him fall forward on his face as he's accustomed to.

"I think you managed to consume a tavern or two," says the voice much too cheerfully for his liking, "you suppose if I prick you with a needle there'll be a fountain of wine in here?"

The hand on his right shoulder shifts, long fingers tangle in his hair as a warm palm settles on the back of his neck.

The back of his neck that is bent, that has no scarf around it.

This man – if he could – he would know – he would have read.

Athos shoves him back with all the force of his fear and anger.

He doesn't care that the man has landed hard on his back.

His neck is exposed. His hands claw at his own neck even as the loss of support has him slumping on his knees on the floor with an impact that resounds in his head. But his scarf is not there. He scratches at his exposed neck, his vision blurred, eyes hot and stinging.

"Hey, hey, it's alright mon frère," the voice sooths.

Athos doesn't see the other man get to his feet, doesn't see him come forward with his scarf. Only finds that he can breathe when the soft worn fabric is finally, finally, wrapped around his neck. When he blinks clear the moisture in his eyes it is to find his forehead resting on a firm shoulder and his fingers clutching the leather of the man's coat.

"…it's aright, it's alright,"

And Athos stills.

He pushes the man back, but can't find in him the desire to shove him hard.

Sitting back on his haunches Aramis cocks his head to the side and raises a brow.

Athos clears his throat and gathers the torn remnants of his dignity.

The edge of the cot digs in his back as he straightens and pulls his knees up. Aramis responds by crossing his legs and settling on the dusty floor before him. Like there isn't a puddle of regurgitated wine next to them, like Athos hadn't just lost his bearings over an old scarf, like he hadn't read the words carved on the back of Athos' neck.

The sunlight from the window makes him squint but there is something about the man before him that pulls at Athos.

"It seems I will be serving the crown," he says.

Aramis holds his gaze when he nods.

"Four months, one week, three days ago the regiment lost half its men," he says, the tremor in his voice is not lost on Athos, "We need skilled soldiers Athos but only those who are worthy."

The implication of the words dries up his throat but Aramis still holds his gaze. Those dark eyes hold a warmth in them that Athos dares not let himself draw towards; but a part of him knows he's already failing at that. He hates the responding pull up on his lips when a slow, small smile curls on Aramis' face.

"Welcome home," Aramis says.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think.**


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn't think he has heard the Captain right.

The man has asked him to lead Aramis, Pierre and Henri to collect a prisoner and deliver him to His Eminence's court. Athos understands the assignment, even understands the need to have Musketeers doing what is the Red Guards' duty. The Cardinal's men don't want to go collect the criminal who is rumoured to be descended from giants. None of that bothers Athos.

"Lead?" he asks.

"Yes,"

Athos glances aside to Aramis, hoping the man would interject. But no objection is forthcoming and the silence in the Captain's office stretches. Shifting his weight from one foot to another he looks back to the Captain, nervous like he had rarely been as a small boy.

"Aramis should lead," he says, "he is far more experienced than me."

"I defer to the wisdom of your age," there's a mischievous spark in the brown eyes that turn to him but Athos doesn't miss the depth of grief it hides.

In the sporadic observations during their two months of acquaintance Athos has seen flashes of a deep seated sorrow in the man who is never too far to offer him silent company. Aramis is always ready with a smile and a quip but it is in the moments of quiet that Athos feels the presence of another hurting soul. And he would not admit it even to himself but he wishes to ease the pain of this man whose presence he is becoming dangerously used to. He has tried not to get used to him but Athos actually misses him during the bouts of his self-imposed isolation when he flatly refuses Aramis' company and the man then goes off to jump in the bed of one mistress or another.

"It is not my place to lead," Aramis says.

And Athos wishes he could fill that place if only to wipe away that tremor in the man beside him. To assure him that it's alright, that he doesn't need to lead, that he can stand down and Athos will carry him forward where he cannot cross on his own. That he would do for Aramis what he had done for him.

Because he knows what it feels like to have a chasm opened before your feet and that he knows what it means to have someone reach out with a steadying hand. Athos is rubbing the back of his neck without even noticing the action; imagines that he can feel the curve of the letters on his skin even through the folds of the scarf. He is not born to lead, he is not born to rule, he is _To serve_.

Unbidden that helpless anger that had frozen his childish sniffles into an aloof mask rises again. This time it threatens to burn away the armour Athos had built on hard learned acceptance.

"Is there a problem Athos?" the Captain asks.

"It is not my place to lead either," he says.

Turns on his heels and marches out of the office without waiting to be dismissed. He is out on the balcony, down the stairs and across the yard when he realizes that he is being followed. Still Athos does not stop until he has reached his room, his fists clenched tight by his sides as he refrains from punching the wall and throwing the only chair in his room in a fit of rage.

 _To serve_ , writes along the edges of his mind in the curved letters he had witnessed in the mirror all those years ago.

He stands still; rigid to the point that the muscles in his neck twitch under the strain and his back feels pulled taut to its limit. There is little room left for his chest to expand in order for him to take a proper breath. It is shallow and hitching, just shy of panting.

The door behind him closes with a gentle snick.

"I would be honoured to serve under your command," Aramis says, "every man whom you lead would serve under your decisions. It is an easy thing to serve one command, one man, one crown. The weight of responsibility is lighter in that service."

Fear propels Athos to swing around and stare at the man.

He glares at him, fuming at the audacity of this man for flaunting the knowledge he holds over him. The knowledge Aramis has no right to. Rage bubbles out of the humiliation in his gut and Athos grabs the man by the front and slams him back into the wall.

Leather creaks where he grabs his coat and Aramis' hat topples off his head upon impact.

The cool blade of Athos' dagger rests against Aramis' throat.

But the brown eyes holding his gaze do not flinch.

"You saw," it's barely above a whisper.

Aramis nods.

A thousand thoughts rise in Athos' mind; a thousand scenarios and a thousand outcomes. None of which is remotely like the reality in which the man before him raises his arms and settles his hand on Athos' shoulders.

"It takes only someone with the strength bestowed by sheer luck to serve every man who follows his orders, to take responsibility of actions not his own, of lives in his care. To serve like that is what makes one a king, makes one the captain of his men." Aramis does not look away as he speaks, as his nimble fingers adjust the scarf Athos haven't even realized that he had disturbed in his agitation, "Luck has marked you mon frère, it is a spinning coin by turns a curse and a blessing. But the question is what you do with."

Aramis drops his hands back to his sides, not protesting when Athos gives him a shake before he lets him go. The dagger hitting the floor rings out like the gong of a bell over Paris. There is a trembling in his heart that Athos doesn't wish to share, a shivering hope that he is worthy of what he had always assumed out of reach. He turns away from the man by the wall but his steps falter as he pushes for distance.

Yet it is what he craves and somehow Aramis understands that.

"Stop hiding who you could be brother," Aramis pauses on the threshold on his way out, "your touch of luck is what makes you who you are; but it doesn't have to have the final say."

Athos doesn't move even after the door closes. He cannot move. But he sways, locks his knees and refuses to slump to the ground, forces his legs to take his weight even if they feel like half empty water-skins. But the words on the back of his neck are the fear that pins him in place, it is the shackle around his neck that always jerks his head down and dips his gaze.

He breathes.

There is a sharp line of sunlight an inch from the toes of his boots; spilling in bright, in a clear box marked by the edges of the window. He stares at it mesmerized. The weight of his luck presses his feet onto the ground, too heavy for him to move.

His eyes water.

A shaky hand reaches up to his throat.

Trembling fingers clasp the worn scarf and pull.

He closes his eyes and sees _To serve_ burned on the back of his eyelids.

The air is cool around his neck, sprouting gooseflesh down his spine. Athos shivers and shuffles forwards. It takes him a minute to sense the warmth of the sunlight and hesitantly he tilts up his face. Watches the darkness behind his closed eyes melt into red and gold, feels the heat of the sun on his skin and the scarf drops from his limp fingers.

He is _To serve_.

He is not to hide.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **THANK YOU everyone who read, favorite, follow and review this story. And the guest reviewers whom I cannot thank personally; A reader, Doubtful Guest, Jmp and Clara your reviews made my day, thank you!**


	3. Chapter 3

It takes a day and a half to reach the village.

Athos orders Pierre and Henri to set up camp on the outskirts as he and Aramis ride on ahead to collect the prisoner. If the man beside him is wondering about his change of heart he doesn't say it out loud. Athos is surprised by the quiet acceptance; no gloating, no mockery is thrown his way from the man who knows the words dictating his life and yet follows his lead.

It is in the silent recognition that Athos finds he is worthy. His steps feel more firm walking beside Aramis and his skin settles over him after a lifetime of being stretched in an effort to cover his secrets.

"We've kept 'im in the cellar," says the inn keeper.

"All this time?" Aramis asks.

The round man leads the way with a single oil lamp.

"Ay, f'r three days now. 'ees a giant, strong as a bear and ferocious. Set fire to the tavern and killed five men 'ee did!"

Even in the dim light Athos can see his comrade roll his eyes as they stop before the door at the end of the stairway they have descended.

"It seems it would be safer if we take it from here," Athos holds out a hand for the keys and the compliance is prompt.

The space beyond the door is pitch black and cold. The air is heavy with the smell of earth and chilly as it reaches out to greet them. Athos notices his companion stiffen, glances aside to watch the fear flash on his face before his lips set in a grim line.

"I wouldn't leave an animal tied up in here," he growls, voice thick with disgust and anger.

"He killed five men," Athos reminds him.

"Then slice a blade over his throat or shoot him through the heart," Aramis says.

Athos cannot understand the man, he's a soldier and a medic; how he balances the mind of a warrior with the compassion in his heart is something beyond his comprehension. As he pauses in the doorway and watches his comrade march off into the cold and dark Athos fleetingly wonders what luck had touched him with.

A curse and a blessing Aramis had told him and he had spoken like one who understood that all too well.

It is the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor that prompts him to move. Athos holds the lamp high in one hand, the rapier in the other as he hurries after Aramis. He finds his comrade stuck on his back on the floor while a brute of a man has his bound hands wrapped around his throat.

Even as his blade rests against the prisoner's throat Athos feels the sharp stab of worry for his friend.

He has no time to spare to wonder when Aramis has claimed the place of a friend in his life.

"Back away," Athos says.

It is not his blade but the light that has the dark skinned man cringing and falling on his rear in an effort to get away from it. Athos dares a glance towards Aramis, relief flooding him with a surprising force as the man rolls onto his side, breathing harshly.

" 'm fine," he wheezes, "surprised him, surprised myself,"

"Nothing new then," Athos raises a brow.

Aramis smirks as he gets to his feet and moves to crouch before their prisoner. The man cringes against the light and shuffles back; going rigid with a low growl deep in his throat when Aramis lays a hand on his shoulder. His voice a bit raspy when he speaks.

"I'm Aramis of his majesty's Musketeers; can you tell me your name?"

Athos neither likes nor understands the politeness and he had been raised a noble he muses.

"Athos would you back up a bit? Too much light would probably burn his eyes after this darkness,"

His eyebrows reach his hairline in surprise but his feet shuffle back just a little way away from his friend who sits in dangerous proximity of the man who had already tried to kill him. Athos watches the firm gentleness with which Aramis coaxes the man into the edges of the glow from the lamp, before hauling him onto his feet so that the three of them can leave the cellar.

Their prisoner is compliant, disturbingly so.

But Athos does not miss the intelligence in the sharp dark eyes set over a face mostly obscured by a bushy beard. He is surprised to find a flash of something, not guilt, not fear but something almost like sadness when they walk past the charred remains of the tavern.

It is when they are back at the camp Pierre and Henri have set up that their prisoner shows some resistance. It is just the three of them by the fire, the other two dozing by the tree line and Athos is amused by the nearly petulant expression on their prisoner's face as the big man moves his wrists away from the dagger Aramis wields.

"Look, your wrists are bloody and I'm not going to tie them up again until I can see to them," Aramis says.

"No," says their prisoner.

"Then next time you better strangle me properly instead of just trying to render me unconscious."

Athos quirks a brow.

"Yes he was holding back, could have snapped my neck in seconds if he had wanted to,"

Athos tilts his head a little to the side.

"No I'm not assuming you can see the size of him can't you?"

Athos shrugs a shoulder and uses his boot to nudge the satchel carrying the medical supplies closer towards his friend.

"Thank you, you wound me with your skepticism you know," Aramis waves the dagger carelessly as he places a hand on his heart in mock affront.

The corner of his lips twitches up, it always amazes Athos how Aramis can decipher his looks. He shakes his head slowly and watches the man who has slipped past all his defenses carry on a one-sided conversation with their prisoner. Aramis sorts the items from the satchel carrying their medical supplies, all the while explaining the horrors of infection to their captive audience. Their prisoner casts a glance at Athos and he sits straighter for what he sees in the fleeting look.

Amusement and fond exasperation for the man sitting between them.

"Here's what we're going to do. You are going to let me help you or Athos here can knock you out," Aramis says finally.

At that their prisoner grits his teeth and holds up his wrists for Aramis to hack away at the bloody ropes. For a second Athos is tense, coiled to act should the big man try to make a run for it but that never comes. Instead he lets Aramis wash the abrasions on his wrists first with water then with wine.

And then Aramis tilts the wounds towards the light of the campfire.

Athos isn't looking for it, hadn't even considered it, but he can see the tail ends of words etched on the forearm of their prisoner. Above the wrist and across the breadth of the arm, curved like half a manacle.

But he cannot see what they say.

Because Aramis has his fingers wrapped around them.

Athos would have wondered it being a coincident before, but he knows this man now. This man who has carried his secret for months and only exposed it Athos himself when he did. He knows that his friend had seen and knows that he will not share, nor would he let it come to light by his hand, knows that Aramis would not betray another man and give away a secret not his own.

"There you are," Aramis wraps the bandages snugly and pulls down the sleeve of the man's shirt.

Athos glances away, suddenly feeling guilty for trying to decipher what luck has touched the man with. When he looks back it is to find Aramis looping the rope about their prisoner's wrists, deft but kind. It is when the man is getting back to his feet that their captive catches hold of his hand; halting him midway.

"It's Porthos," he says, "My name is Porthos,"

* * *

The night is heavy with the excited chatter of woodland bugs. Athos wishes he could squish each one of them. He had given up on swatting at the tiny winged beasts that collect over their campfire and by extension collide with him like miniature, excited early shoppers at the market. At least his face is safe under his hat; he suppresses a shudder at the memory of getting hit by one of the buzzing horrors between his eyes.

"He didn't do it,"

Athos remains still, arms crossed over his chest and hands tucked in his armpits.

"He's not a murderer, would've ended my life if he was," Aramis goes on undeterred.

He is asleep, at least it is his turn to sleep and he will not be drawn into conversation with the man on watch.

"Trapped for days under there and he didn't kill to take his chance of escape,"

Sometimes he cannot believe how naïve his friend can be, looking for a kernel of light in the deepest well of a darkened heart. But then he had seen something in him too, something he had found worthy of his loyalty. Aramis had seen in him what Athos had not been able to see.

"And he didn't escape even after I left his bindings loose,"

"You what?" Athos sits up abruptly.

Aramis shrugs.

"He could have easily escaped but he didn't. My intuition was right, he's protecting someone."

Athos looks from his friend to the man leaning back against the far tree. He is positioned at enough distance to make a run for it and if Aramis had left his bindings loose as he claims, there is nothing stopping the man.

"He would have escaped had he wanted to but I think he doesn't want us looking further into the matter,"

Athos picks up his hat that has fallen off, taps it against his thigh and resettles it on his head.

"You are an utter fool," he grouses.

"But I'm a fool who's right and you know it," the cheeky grin should not make him smirk.

He should be angry, of the insane move and of the blatant disobedience, not to mention the risk the man had put them at. But then he catches sight of the prepped musket leaning by Aramis' knee and knows that his recklessness is backed by skilled. He would have shot their prisoner to a stop had the man actually tried to escape.

"He is innocent," Aramis says, "we can't go through with this."

"We don't know –"

"He had two other men with him when the brawl started," Aramis reminds him.

"And what do you suggest we do about that?"

As though heralded by his words a shot cracks the night air, the log Athos had been leaning against splinters where the ball of metal hits. The four Musketeers are swamped by at least double the number of their enemy. Athos yells at them to secure the prisoner.

His eyes widen when two blades collide right next to his ear.

Their prisoner is right next to him.

"Leave 'em be Charon," Porthos says to the attacker, "five men are dead, ain't that enough?"

"I'm here to save you Porthos,"

Athos knows he should move, he should intervene but his eyes are fixed on the words on Porthos' arm caught in the light of the campfire.

 _To protect,_ they say.

But he cannot understand why Porthos had chosen to protect him of all the people. Yet his opponent demands his attention, and it is only when he is done with the men attacking him that he notices the sheer number of the gang that had descended upon them. By the number of wounded and the dead he can tell that he had been the target since most of them had come his way, even with Aramis cutting them off in their paths.

He is still trying to catch his breath when Charon orders a retreat.

Athos wants to give chase.

But the world decides to sway in that moment.

His breath hitches, sticks to his dry throat and nicks on the edge of a stabbing jolt of pain. Athos swipes his tongue over his suddenly dry lips and presses against his side where a fire has started licking his skin, making his clothes cling to him and staining his hand a slick red. He frowns at the blood on his palm and manages to press his hand back onto the wound just as his knees decide that they have had enough.

The ground rushes to meet him.

"Captain?"

He blinks rapidly.

Feels an arm across his shoulders that has stopped his fall and swings his head up at the title being voiced. He finds himself looking at Porthos.

"I'm not the Captain," he says.

For a second he fears that he has missed the touch of taunt that just has to be there; Porthos is pressed close to his side, he would have seen the words marking him. Athos' heart races for the imminent tear in his mantle that would shred his masquerade.

"You're the captain here," Porthos shrugs, "even they could see it, I knew they would want you out of the way first. Take down the leader and the rest will fall."

Athos would laugh if he didn't fear that he wouldn't be able to stop if he started.

He winces when a pair of hands tug at his clothes to get a better look at the gash in his side. He frowns when he realizes that he's on his back, that someone has come close enough to examine the wound. The panic gathering in his chest loosens when his eyes fall on the face bent close to his side, because it's Aramis and that's enough.

The tension drains from his shoulders and he lets his head roll to the side, a blood stained rapier gleams in the firelight and beside it lay discarded gloves among the contents of an open satchel. Athos realizes too late that it's the one carrying medical supplies and that the bottle of wine Aramis carries for this purpose is missing. He cannot stop the hiss that follows as his wound stings anew.

Someone grabs his hand that has moved instinctually to reach the source of pain.

Athos rolls his head to the other side and finds Porthos again.

The man's big hand is wrapped around his own as Aramis' fingers work to sew close the wound.

"Who were they?" Athos asks.

"Friends," Porthos says.

"Who left you behind?"

"I stayed behind,"

"Why?"

"Because you're a witness," Aramis wipes the stitched wound with a wet cloth and gets to his feet, "you saw our prisoner when he started the fire and you warned us of this attack. But our unfortunate prisoner got killed in this ambush."

"Aramis –" their prisoner begins.

Athos is amused how the slighter man suddenly towers over Porthos.

"You didn't start the fire and you didn't murder those men did you?" there is fire in his dark eyes that would burn the truth out of the man, Athos is sure.

He is not disappointed when Porthos shrugs a shoulder with a reluctant nod.

"Then it was one of the dead attackers that did it," Aramis stands back, one arm extending in a sweeping gesture, "take your pick."

Porthos looks from him down to Athos.

He is surprised by the dark eyes that obviously seek his guidance, looking for him to make the decision, to point out the path to take. Athos nods at him, trusting his instincts that are drawn to this man in the same way they had when he had met Aramis. And they hadn't been wrong then.

Aramis grins wolfishly as he sits back with a roll of bandages and wipes the trickle of blood from the nick on his throat. He turns to the rather surprised Pierre and Henri; his grin stretches like a promise of eternal violence and Athos wonders where the savagery lurking suddenly in that gaze stems from.

"Does anyone have anything to add to my deductions?" Aramis demands from the two Musketeers.

Athos is not surprised when they hurry off to re-set the camp without a word.

* * *

The Captain knows there is something off about their story and the Captain knows better than to question it. He is a smart man, Athos has always known that. He is only amused when Captain Treville offers to recruit Porthos, not surprised at all by the move.

But he is surprised when Porthos insists that he must return to his friends.

He is _To protect_ , Athos had thought he would jump at the chance to protect the innocents as a Musketeer.

But the big man is adamant to return to the streets he had grown up in, he wishes only to get back to the Court of Miracles. Athos has no idea why he is disappointed, has no idea when he had wanted Porthos to become a part of their duo, has no idea when he had accepted Aramis' presence beside him enough to consider them a duo.

He pretends to be asleep as voices outside the infirmary filter in. There is an effort to keep the argument quiet, he can tell by the strain in the voices that would just not be subdued.

"And I see it as protecting myself, being selfish and turning my back on my friends."

"Those friends turned their backs on you," Aramis counters, "you protected them. And tell me this Porthos if you were locked up by now like you had intended to would you have been still able to protect them?"

"Doesn't matter what could'a happened,"

"It does when you're throwing away a chance to a better life out of some misplaced loyalties to people who would let you take the fall for their crimes."

"They came back for me,"

"They did," Aramis sounds tired, "maybe they are your friends in a way I don't understand. But I just want you to know that you're good man mon frère, good enough to deserve the chance you are being offered."

"You saw, you and Athos both, I'm _To protect_."

"But you get to decide who you want _To protect_ , that is your choice" Aramis says, "It's not an easy choice I'll give you that. But since you are _To protect,_ I'd rather you have someone watching your back when you do."

There is silence after that. Long enough to lull him into that suspended state on the edge of asleep and awake. Athos lets the pull of sleep drag him out, content on the belief that if there is anyone who can convince Porthos its Aramis, the man could charm the devil and sell it the entry to hell.

So Athos only nods at Porthos when he enters the yard next morning, beard trimmed and a dimpled grin stained with a bruise on his face. The big man slumps at the table awaiting Captain Trevile's arrival. From beside him Aramis is beaming and Athos is glad for the tipped brim of his hat that casts his satisfied smirk in the shadow.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Thank you everyone who read, follow and favorite this story. Thank you those who leave me your thoughts, they are cherished.**


	4. Chapter 4

"You could always ask," Porthos says.

Athos turns to him with a bland look in his eyes.

"You've known him longer than me,"

Athos purses his lips pointedly.

"Alright so you've known him two months longer than me," Porthos shrugs, "and I could ask too but it just sounds kinda rude doesn't it?"

Athos nods.

They have been on their way back from delivering letters to a Comte, plodding through the grey evening of fading winter. It has been over a year since they'd formed a set that the men had taken to call the Inseparables. The three of them together are a formidable force, chosen for the most dangerous and confidential tasks on behalf of the crown.

Being ambushed has become a norm.

At the moment they're sitting in a clearing by a frozen lake as their missing friend has gone to collect firewood for the night. Already there is a more than a decent pile of wood that he had scrounged but the man insists for more. With their last skirmish having left Porthos with a badly sprained ankle and Athos with a shoulder that was wrenched out of its socket; Aramis has taken to cluck and herd them into stopping to make camp earlier than they otherwise would have.

In his absence the conversation has again turned to what luck could have bestowed Aramis with.

Athos and Porthos are aware of what the other bears but so far they hadn't had the chance to find out about their mutual friend. Given Aramis' tendency to talk Athos is surprised to note his friend doesn't say much. What he keeps close to him he only divulges once in a while amidst the chatter and one has to listen to be able to catch that, but he is sure their friend had not shared his touch of luck so far.

"But he does know about us both so I guess it wouldn't be wrong to ask him," Porthos muses.

Athos is wondering the same thing.

It's his last thought before his eyes widen at the sight of men coming out of the trees with their pistols leveled at the Musketeers' heads. Resistance is foolish and yet they try. The seven bandits easily subdue the injured musketeers and Athos soon finds himself tied back to back with Porthos.

They are clawing at their bindings even before they're dumped onto the ground.

Athos almost flinches when he's stung by the thin blade Porthos had slid out of his sleeve.

As he grits his teeth against the pain in his shoulder and patiently waits for the bindings to get cut, he only hopes that Aramis is not caught unawares.

His friend doesn't disappoint by taking out one bandit with a pistol shot and another with a dagger from the cover of the tree line.

Until Athos hears a pistol being cocked near his head and the cool round metal presses against his temple.

"Come out Musketeer or this one dies,"

He detaches from the shadows like he had done the first night Athos has met him, the barrel of his musket rests against his shoulder and his other hand rests on the hilt of his rapier. Dark eyes rove over his struggling brothers before hardening as they settle on the enemy.

"No need to be hasty gentlemen," Aramis says.

"Throw down your weapons and get on your knees,"

Athos glares at his friend to not comply.

He shouldn't have given up his position in the first place.

"If I did that it would leave me depending on your gentlemanly disposition and let's just say..." he looks them up and down before an arrogant smirk curls up, "... you all seem to be lacking in that department,"

A snarl, a curse, a spit.

Three men advance on Aramis.

Athos sees the pistol butt flying towards his head and rolls with the hit as much as he can. The blow is glancing but it bleeds as only head wounds can. Porthos roars in unchecked rage but it is the musketeer standing still armed that Athos focuses on.

The right move now would be to keep his weapons trained on his enemy and retreat, to plan, to get help. But Aramis has never reacted the way Athos has assumed. And this time again he drops his weapons and raises his arms in surrender. He lowers himself slowly to the ground and there is only a second in which Athos catches that insane, violent smirk before his friend bursts into motion. He elbows the nearest man in the gut, buries a dagger in the other one and grabbing his pistol Aramis runs.

Athos kicks out in a futile attempt to topple the man who had been holding them captive even as Porthos finally tears off the ropes.

By the time the two of them get to their feet Aramis is quite far and has stopped with the remaining four bandits surrounding him. Athos looks to Porthos as they suddenly understand the plan their friend had devised.

"NO!" their voices ring out over the lake Aramis is standing on.

The lake that is frozen over but not stable with the summer dawning.

The lake Aramis is standing in the middle of where the ice would be the thinnest.

The lake frozen delicately under Aramis' feet where he points his pistol and fires.

* * *

Athos is fuming.

He believes it does him good given that he is wet in the frozen outdoors.

The firewood Aramis had collected has come in handy; its abundance explains why the man had been gone for so long during his numerous trips. If only Athos could light the pile he had managed to set up. He curses under his breath at not having mastered the art of striking the flint with one arm in a sling.

"I'll do that," Porthos says as he limps over to him, "you get 'im out of these sodden clothes,"

With a curt nod Athos wipes at the watery blood on the side of his face and gets to his feet.

The only proof of life from the man lying eerily still before him are the occasional raspy breaths, that stutter out too far and few in between the silent gaps. Athos tries not to let his gaze linger on the slightly parted lips that are tinged blue and the waxy look that the man's icy skin has taken. It is with more anger than finesse that he divests his friend of his clothes.

He decides to blame the frustration on only being able to use one arm.

He cannot be so shaken of the possible demise of a comrade.

Of a friend.

Of a brother.

A shredded, angry whimper rips from him and his fist clenches in the frozen shirt.

Tears add to the freezing water drops on his face and he looks up at Porthos when he sits across from him on Aramis' other side. The fear and concern is etched clear on the other man's face as they quietly work in tandem.

They have no reassurance to offer each other.

That is Aramis' job.

Silently they wrestle the shirt off of him.

Porthos rubs up and down over the limp arms as he eases their friend down onto his back again.

Their breaths catch in their throats, their eyes zero in on the words.

As if a seal from the highest authority, branded directly over Aramis' heart are the words.

 _To love_.

It's as simple as that.

And in retrospect Athos muses he should have known.

 _To love_ , his faith, his country, his brother-in-arms, the women he beds, the people he saves, _To love_.

"A curse and a blessing," Porthos murmurs.

Of course Aramis would have told him that too.

"A spinning coin," Athos nods.

* * *

The fire pops and spits but it blazes on. Athos pulls his face from where he had pressed it into the back of Aramis' head and stares at the flames, contemplating if he should feed their campfire more wood.

"It'll do for now," Porthos says.

They are down to their smallclothes and huddled under the flimsy blankets that are afforded to soldiers and have added their Musketeer boat-cloaks for good measure. Lying as close to the fire as they can without getting singed has risen the heat around them to an uncomfortable level. But Athos dares not move from where he is curled around his friend's back, the same friend who now has his face tucked under Porthos' chin, the friend who has finally eased into more humane shivering after the violent shudders that had claimed him and scared the life out of Athos.

"Do you know who this Marsac is?" he asks.

Because Porthos will know since him and Aramis actually talk while Athos silently drowns in wine most nights.

Because the imploring way Aramis calls the name makes Athos to want to know who this person is and if he is alive.

Because Athos would very much like to murder this person if he is still breathing.

"A deserter," Porthos pushes up on an elbow and glancing down at the pale face he smooths the damp hair from Aramis' forehead, "The Captain told me that over half a year before I joined, the regiment lost twenty men in a massacre during a training exercise in the forests of Savoy. Marsac and Aramis were the only survivors and the bastard left him behind with the dead."

Suddenly their first encounter makes a lot of sense to Athos, he had not been remiss in noting the flash of pain when Aramis had withdrawn from him that night. He wishes that he hadn't been as callous as he had been in his words then, and he wonders now how Aramis must have pulled himself out of that mess. Because he is _To love,_ he doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve but carries it in his fingers that are always ready to sew close wounds, he keeps it as a palette in his eyes to colour his perception that is always searching for a gleam of light, he offers it in his easy smiles like a child offering flowers, without reason or want for return.

Athos rubs a hand over his face and settles his arm over his friend.

He had assumed that his luck has left him defenseless but now he sees it has left his friend completely exposed; has placed an eternal wound in his skin that would never heal, a wound that can be soothed or rubbed raw but cannot be closed.

Athos tightens his hold around his friend, presses his chin atop his head and he decides not to prod why the idea of Aramis' death feels more devastating than the death of his little brother had been. The ribs under his arm move with the staccato breathing of his friend and there's a rustle that Athos can feel beyond the skin and muscle that worries him more than he thought it was possible.

Slowly the shivering in Aramis gives way to an occasional tremble and they hold their post in silence.

Until a groan from the man between them has them both looking his way.

Athos rolls him to lay him on his back and they prop themselves up to stare at Aramis' face in hopes of the man coming awake.

Aramis' eyes are bloodshot and glassy when they open at half-mast. They stare past Porthos' head leaning in his view with a blankness that chills Athos' heart more effectively than the dip in the freezing waters. He lightly tugs at his friend's hair where his hand is tangled and that prompts a slow blink.

Aramis shivers.

His gaze flicks lazily from one man to the other.

" 'r y' alrigh'?" he slurs.

Porthos snorts and shakes his head, dissolving in quiet laughter at the absurdness of it all.

Aramis' eyes open a bit wider and Athos catches the trembling hand that lifts in rising panic, trying to reach for the wound in his hairline. The fingers in his clasp are still too cold.

"We're fine you fool," he says.

Porthos nods, his chuckles taking on a hysterical edge that resounds in the night and Athos shivers. It makes him glare at the big man who clears his throat and voices his assent that they are indeed fine.

Aramis nods, blinks a few times and each time it takes longer for him to open his eyes again.

"You're _To love_ you idiot, why'd you become a soldier?" Porthos rumbles.

Aramis looks at him before his eyes slide to Athos and then stares past them, gaze shifting up to the sky that reflects back in his dark eyes with all it's stars. He clears his throat and erupts in a cough that sounds like a wet cloth flapping in the wind. Athos hauls him up until he's sitting with his back to Athos' chest and Porthos guides his breaths with a grounding hold on his shoulder until his wheezing falls into a rhythm.

Athos doesn't like the heat that has started to emit from the man leaning against him. It seems their friend is intent to cover the entire spectrum of temperature and is now heading towards the opposite end. They will have to break camp soon and head back to Paris.

It'll be a hard ride, Athos is sure as he glances down at the man in his clasp.

But there is a smile slowly creeping on Aramis' face.

"It's m'weakness that forces me in a corner," he murmurs,, "an' it's my strength that makes m' fight out of it."

Porthos looks to Athos.

Their eyes meet and look away.

Not ready to acknowledge the truth behind what they had just witnessed.

But to their surprise Aramis is not done, he coughs and shivers and Athos pulls the blankets higher over them.

" 'An' that's 'cos I always know the worth of what I'm fighting for," Aramis says.

It is these words that Athos will remember every time his friend will pull a reckless stunt from now on, when he'll stand back to back with Porthos in tavern brawls, when he'll parry side by side with him in Athos' drunken duels. When he'll be the first to cut down the blade intent on claiming Athos' life, when Aramis will jump on bombs and shelter the queen with his body, when he'll shake the concern out of him for Porthos, when he will question Treville, when he will shoot a brother, when he will trick the crown to save a baby or to get his friend justice.

These words will enrage him more than anything else when Aramis will commit the highest treason, because were they not worth it anymore? And these words will break his heart when his friend will walk away from them; because Athos will know the pain it will cost his friend to leave them behind and he will know it was because he considered their safety worth it.

Because Aramis is _To love._

* * *

 **TBC [next up d'Artagnan]**

 **Thank you everyone who read, favorite and follow this story. And those who take the time to share your thoughts, be sure they are doted upon.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you everyone who read, favorite, follow and review this story. Special thank you to the guest reviewers Jmp, Doubtful Guest and Ruth.**

 **This is the last chapter and there is a post Season 2 scene which could be spoiler-ish but that would be unintentional and a huge very- slim-chance-to-happen coincidence because I haven't seen season 3.**

 **Thank you everyone for your time and kind words!**

* * *

Things settle into a tune and the years solidify what Athos had never thought was possible for him. He is a Musketeer, second only to the Captain and the best swordsman who is yet to be defeated in a duel. Amidst the lines of luck and choice, life had fallen in place better than he could have hoped for. Years later he likes to think he has understood what place luck has chosen for him if he had played his cards right.

And he had.

He is _To serve_ his brothers in direction, Porthos is _To protect_ him and Aramis and Aramis is _To love_ , to give it all a meaning and them a worth in life full of violence.

And then d'Artagnan charges into their lives.

With revenge in his heart and rage in his eyes.

The boy calls him out. Demands retribution for the murder of his father and a part of Athos notes that the headstrong move is suicidal yet falls in the circumference of honour. The boy lashes at him with a direct assault, but refuses to stab him in the back and Athos rolls his eyes when he catches Aramis' gaze.

Years spent with the man seemed to have rubbed off on him.

Athos has started noting the good in people.

But his short lived incarceration takes over his thoughts and it is only when late into the night, they are heading out of the tavern that Athos notices d'Artagnan cradling his side. The boy is walking slower than him and he is drunk.

Which is a feat because years' worth of alcohol in his veins makes blunting his senses a difficult task.

"G' on, h'lp 'im," he shoves away from Porthos.

They enter the dark yard of the garrison with a reluctant d'Artagnan in tow and once Aramis alights on the youth who has stopped pretending to be not hurt, the older Musketeer is in his element. They drag the boy off to the infirmary where Aramis gets about to wrap his bruised ribs.

Athos leans against the doorjamb and waits for the room to stop spinning.

When it does his eyes stray to d'Artagnan's back and there they are.

The words curled between his shoulder blades like a crown atop his spine.

 _To not yield,_ they say.

The room goes quiet; Athos glances at Porthos and looks away quickly. Only Aramis continues on like he had encountered nothing out of the ordinary. But d'Artagnan is aware of his surroundings enough to feel the shift in silence and glances over his shoulder to where Athos stands.

His curiosity gives way to a wide grin and he hops to his feet much to Aramis' annoyance.

"You too?" he says, "You read that didn't you?"

This is the first person Athos has come across to actually be excited about what luck had touched him with and who seems eager to share; even Anne had been reticent to let her marks show. Athos looks from him to Porthos to Aramis. Before his eyes stray back to the boy who looks over the moon to have something that he obviously deems to be in common with Athos.

"Why don't you take a seat and let Aramis finish his work?"

"Sure," d'Artagnan bounds back to sit at the edge of the bed, "but you'll tell me yours right?"

It's Aramis who huffs and shakes his head, lays a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulders to keep him in place as he continues to wrap his ribs. When he is done he straightens and cracks his back, eyes searching those of the other two in the room.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan turns around fully.

And even after years of coming to terms with it Athos' heart flutters like a bird in a trap when he is asked to acknowledge the words he bears.

"I'm _To love_ ," Aramis cuts in smoothly, with a hand on his heart he uses his other to raise his hat in a greeting, "and to remind you to be polite,"

D'Artagnan ducks his head and stares at his shoes.

Athos feels a surge of gratitude towards his friend but finds that he should not be afraid to speak the words out loud; no more fear he had promised himself all those years ago. If only he could find the strength for it now.

" _To protect_ ," Porthos speaks as he rolls up his sleeve to let the words show, his smile is kind, playful and just a touch reprimanding, "and that means from innocent curiosity too,"

D'Artagnan looks up at the tone, meeting squarely what he sees is a challenge.

"I just thought it fair and I don't see what's wrong in sharing the information," d'Artagnan shrugs but sits straighter, chin out.

 _To not yield_ , Athos rolls his eyes.

" _To serve_ ," he says, "and probably to teach you to temper that stubbornness of yours."

* * *

He learns that he cannot.

As he gets to know the boy better he comes to see the reinforced stubbornness that is the vigor behind everything he does. When he's up and fighting every time he hits the floor, when he's almost blown to smithereens and yet finds it in himself to chase down his man and defeat him in a duel. That is when Athos starts to wonder if luck has marked him an equal; given him the tenacity to take everything that it can throw at him.

Athos suddenly believes he is seeing what a touch of good luck can be.

And he finds that the three of them are the ones who are put in place to haul the boy back to his feet whenever luck hits him a little too hard. But d'Artagnan's own blessing of stubbornness is enough more often than not and suddenly they have a different place in life, a place that is around the boy who is _To not yield_.

To give direction, protection, purpose.

Athos believes with all his heart when he tells the Captain that the boy will be the best of them all.

* * *

The war still rages on but they are not at the battlefront anymore

Doesn't mean they don't encounter battlefields every day.

"D'Artagnan stop! Let them go!" Athos screams after the young man who grabs a rushing horse and swings in the saddle of the moving animal, "STOP! Get back here!"

But the horse gallops on, chasing after the retreating men who had attacked the Royal convoy. Athos is moving after his musketeer without thought and grunts when he his leg suddenly gives away under him. Twigs and tiny stones crunch under his knee that hits the ground.

"D'Artagnan!" he yells in fury.

But of course the man would not listen, he is _To not yield_ damn it all!

Another horse rushes past Athos.

He digs the point of his rapier in the earth and forces himself up only to find the world lurching. When his leg gives away again he is held up by a strong arm around his back.

"Easy, easy," Porthos lowers him slowly.

And then a shot rings out in the distance.

Even so far from the action he can tell it's d'Artagnan who jerks back; watches with his heart in his throat as the boy tilts sideways. Before Aramis who had been following him catches the young man lest he falls over and breaks his neck.

They are not on the frontline.

This was not supposed to happen.

"Athos? Y' with me?" Porthos pats his face, "C'mon Captain you're needed here,"

He blinks rapidly and shakes his head.

The world swirls around him when he looks up at the sound of approaching horse. Aramis has wrapped his sash around d'Artagnan's upper arm, the sash that is rapidly staining purple. Athos closes his eyes before he swallows thickly, breath coming easier at finding it a shot to the arm.

"Porthos?" it's the dip in Aramis' voice that makes both men pay attention to the fact that the younger man in their friend's grip is unconscious.

"You need to take him back to the garrison," Aramis says.

"Can't he –?"

"He needs a surgeon," Aramis grits his teeth as he cuts off Minister Treville mid sentence, "now,"

It is the grim fear in the man who shifts places with Porthos that has Athos on the edge.

"What – what's wrong?" he asks.

"I need to wrap that gash in your leg," Aramis says.

Athos watches in a trance like silence as Minister Treville urges the King back into his now straightened carriage and Porthos thunders off with d'Artagnan without a backwards glance. They are still an hour's ride away from Paris.

Athos grabs Aramis by the collar and forces him to stop halfway in binding the wound.

"What's wrong?" he asks again.

Aramis reaches up and grasps his wrist with fingers that are stained with dried blood. Athos tightens his grip and so does Aramis; but that is all, he does not yank away Athos' hold.

It is anchoring.

For both of them.

"The shot was at a close range," Aramis' voice does not waver, "I think it hit the bone,"

The world pitches on its side, darkness encroaches from the edges around his vision and Athos pushes down the bile rising to his throat. He is distantly aware of his shoulder thumping against Aramis' chest, of Treville's voice ordering them to move, of being hefted up and into a saddle.

"Hold on Athos, just hold on for me," Aramis' voice speaks in his ear.

His friend has an arm about his waist and Athos allows himself to rest against the solid presence behind him. If only the boy had learned to stand down, if only he had listened, if only he had learned to let go.

But d'Artagnan is like the hound that bites into the bone with its curved incisors, locking in and sticking on for the terrible ride should someone try to shake him off its target.

The boy is _To not yield._

* * *

The wooden ceiling is dark and in desperate need of cleaning.

He shifts and winces.

The floor is hard where he lies despite the cloth he can feel under him.

Athos rolls his head to the side and finds a pair of boots a little way off. In the fading light of the day filtering in from the window he can see Porthos who is straddling a chair. Aramis is at his back, face set as his fingers move in the familiar pattern of stitching wounds.

They are in the Captain's quarters.

"D'Artagnan?" he croaks.

"Still out of it," Porthos nods towards the bed, "the surgeon left a while ago."

His dark eyes fix onto Athos, jaw works around words he seemed to want to share before he closes his mouth with an audible click. Aramis' hand comes to rest on his shoulder and the tension in his lines seems to ease. Still Porthos' brows are drawn in a frown; it creases deeper as Athos pushes himself to sit up and the big man makes to get to his feet.

"One of you ruining my needlework is enough I think," Aramis pats his shoulder.

Athos presses his back against the wall to keep upright and waits for the room to stop spinning. It settles as Aramis cuts the thread and is looping the bandage around Porthos' chest. When he's done he walks over, grabs the arm Athos lifts and hauls him to his feet.

It's a matter of seconds and Athos is being lowered into a chair beside the bed.

D'Artagnan's face is pinched in pain, the corners of his eyes crinkled in a grimace even as he sleeps. The red stain on the bandage around his arm is bigger than Athos had expected, it bodes no good and a sinking feeling churns in his stomach.

"Did it –?"

His voice falters; fades out into mute denial.

"Yes," Aramis says.

"It's his sword arm," Porthos groans like he is the one in agony, "he won't be able to – even after it heals – the strength to draw a sword and fight it won't –"

He stops with a grunt and a shake of his head. Silence hurries to gain ground in the room, slithers and stretches in the space between them, fills into the corners, tucks into every crevice, every bend, until it becomes an ominous darkness curled about them.

Aramis lights a lantern.

Athos flinches.

Porthos shifts in his chair.

A bowl appears in the corner of his view and Athos ignores it. He looks back down at d'Artagnan and rests a hand on his forehead. The unnatural warmth under his palm is not a surprise.

"He has a fever,"

"That's to be expected," Aramis pushes the bowl into his free hand, "drink Athos, you lost quite a lot of blood."

"I don't –"

"Yes you need it," Aramis says, "you too Porthos, you need to eat."

Athos glances back at the big man who is holding onto a plate of bread and cheese. With a resigned sigh he takes a sip of the tepid broth and finds that he is actually thirsty. Aramis re-fills the bowl without a word before he settles on the floor with his back against the bed.

"The bone isn't shattered," he says, "but the ball was lodged in it."

It doesn't matter; d'Artagnan's days as a Musketeer are over.

Athos purses his lips and pays Aramis only half a mind, but the smell of wine makes him look down at the man who has poured a healthy amount on a piece of cloth. He takes the bottle from his friend before he can set it down and Aramis rolls his eyes as he lifts the hem his shirt and presses the wine soaked cloth over the slice in his side. Its crusted with dry blood and bleeds afresh under the vigorous cleaning.

Athos grimaces and hands the bottle back to him.

Aramis takes a swig and tosses it to Porthos.

It's caught before a drop can be spilled.

"I should have stopped him," Athos says.

Porthos snorts.

"When have you ever been able to stop any of us?" he asks.

"And he's the one _To not yield_ ," Aramis reminds him.

Athos looks back at the drawn young face.

"Where's Constance?" he asks.

"Went to get him a change of clothes," Porthos shrugs, "not one for sitting still that one,"

Aramis nods through a clenched jaw as he stitches his side.

Athos picks up the discarded cloth in the bowl of water left by his feet. He wrings out the excess moisture and blots the sweat forming along d'Artagnan's hairline. His mind wanders on a blank stretch as to what this young man's future would be.

D'Artagnan had survived canon fires, enemy blades and volleys of musket shots.

D'Artagnan had survived harsh winters, limited rations and sleepless fortnights.

D'Artagnan had survived the frontlines.

They are back.

This was not supposed to happen.

Suddenly Athos finds that d'Artagnan's touch of luck is not as good as he had come to believe.

And that shakes him to the core.

* * *

It's been over two weeks since d'Artagnan was shot.

It's been a week since this started.

And Athos is going to put an end to this.

A part of him calls him a hypocrite but he can't watch his young friend drown himself in wine day in and day out. Guilt gnaws at his insides that he may have set the example d'Artagnan had been following so thoroughly, but it only fuels the anger that burns in him.

They have split up again this night to track their youngest.

D'Artagnan is one sneaky bugger even with the injury.

As Athos rounds the corner of a narrow street he finds their wayward friend standing near the other street-end. The light from the tavern door at his side had thrown d'Artagnan's features into a long shadow that stretches to cover the looming figures before him. Athos counts at least three men and even as he breaks into a run he notes that d'Artagnan is steady on his feet although the sword he had raised isn't.

The men in the dark move onto d'Artagnan.

The blade shivers as the arm wielding it trembles badly.

Something hits the men from the side, mowing down all three.

It's Porthos.

The man doesn't even draw a weapon.

The contained fury with which he had stalked off to track d'Artagnan explodes in precise blows raining onto the enemy. By the time Athos reaches them the men are groaning on the filthy ground. He breathes out in relief to find them alive; for a second he had been afraid that Porthos might just kill them.

But then his throat dries up as the big man swings around and grabbing d'Artagnan by the scruff of his shirt he lifts him up with a vigorous shake. The rapier falls with a decisive clink and no one moves to retrieve it.

"Do you want to get killed? Is that it?" Porthos growls.

"I had it in hand," d'Artagnan snaps back and tries to kick at Porthos' leg, "I could take them,"

"Gentlemen, this is not the place," Athos cuts in, "put him down Porthos,"

For all his anger the big man is almost gentle in setting the man back onto his feet. Athos can tell d'Artagnan is surprised but the flash of it is lost under the bitter anger that had been his norm these past days.

"I didn't ask you to come to my rescue," the young one growls.

"You didn't have to bloody ask,"

"Why? Because you're _To protect_?" d'Artagnan scowls and Athos wishes the younger man was drunk if only so that he could blame the wine for the venom boiling in the young blood.

"Is that it? It's some sort of compulsion for you?" d'Artagnan cradles his injured arm close to his chest and his voice raises several notches, "this just gave you the chance for it doesn't it, works right in your favor –"

The smack is deafening.

Athos' breath comes out harsh as he shakes out the fist that had risen of its own accord.

"Enough," he says quietly.

D'Artagnan straightens, tosses back the hair falling in his eyes with a defiant jerk of his head and glares back. Athos does not like the hard gleam he sees in the dark eyes and curses the boy's ability to come back swinging after every hit.

 _To not yield._

"I didn't know you alone held the rights of self destruction, did I tread on your territory Athos?"

"At least you accept that you're self destructing," Aramis steps up between Athos and Porthos, "now you just need to find a way out of it."

"And that would be to fall in bed with the first woman I can lay my eyes on?"

"In this case I don't think she'll appreciate the gesture for once," Aramis' smile is thin as he steps aside and Constance appears behind him.

Athos watches all the fight drain from the younger man, it melts away out of the rigid lines of his body like snow under summer sun. Constance gathers her trembling husband in her arms and holds on, even as the shaking in his shoulders becomes more pronounced.

Athos looks away, follows his friends as they step away from the couple.

It is only when the two break apart that Aramis speaks.

"If you will Madame, I would like to check the damage done to the healing arm," he says.

And that is how the three of them follow d'Artagnan home.

* * *

"You've been practicing sword work haven't you?" Aramis asks.

He had examined the bruised arm, the tight stitches and set it back in d'Artagnan's lap as softly as possible. The boy hangs his head but Athos can tell that he's in pain by the way he refuses to look up. Leaning against the wall he casts a glance towards Porthos who is perched on the edge of the bed beside their young friend; at a distance but still close enough to stop him should d'Artagnan keel over.

Downstairs, Constance is banging pots and cabinets as she brews the tea for pain relief. Athos is sure that the racket is unnecessary but keeps his mouth shut; Madame d'Artagnan is not in the mood to entertain obvious observations.

Aramis puts the sling about d'Artagnan's neck and the boy is forced to raise his head, his eyes are red-rimmed.

"I have to keep practicing," he says, "I can't let this go, if I'm not a Musketeer then what am I?" he draws his good hand over his face, "I can't give up on it. I just can't."

"You need to give it time to heal," Aramis settles the knot so that it won't poke in d'Artagnan's neck and rests his hand on the quivering shoulder, "And we will never ask you to give up. If you did that where will the rest of us be?"

Athos dares not move as something close to confidence edges cautiously in d'Artagnan's eyes.

Aramis shifts his grip to the back of the younger man's neck.

"You are _To not yield_ , that's what hope is d'Artagnan. Not the shiny bright light that is fleetingly warm and easily overcast, but the hard gritty residue that refuses to dissolve or get crushed," he straightens and runs a hand through his own hair, "I think I speak for all of us here that seeing you like this is only adding to our own fears."

D'Artagnan bites his lip.

Thick tears roll down his face but he makes no move to wipe them away.

He is not hiding them anymore.

Athos feels his breath catch at the thought.

He pushes away from the wall just as d'Artagnan turns to Porthos.

"I'm sorry," his voice is clear although thick, "I'm sorry Porthos you don't deserve the way I lashed out. You've always watched my back and –"

His words get muffled against the bigger Musketeer's chest who draws him close and holds on, arms secure about the shaking frame but never constricting.

"I know, I know," Porthos murmurs, "none of us like what you're going through,"

Athos swallows the lump in his throat and forces his stinging eyes away from the two of them. They land on Aramis who is heading out of the room. The man turns to him as though he was aware of being watched and there is a mute plea in his gaze that is asking Athos to guide the younger man around the wall he had hit, before d'Artagnan does too much damage banging his head against it.

* * *

It's morning.

Almost.

It will be.

The sun will be rising soon enough.

He had spent hours thinking and pacing; going in circles to find a way. He knows d'Artagnan would not give up and in his effort to gain what he has lost he would only prolong his suffering until there will be nothing left to salvage.

Constance is not pleased to see him at their door at this hour.

"You just left," she rubs at her eyes.

"I need to talk to d'Artagnan," he says.

"Of course you do,"

A few minutes later a rather bewildered d'Artagnan appears on the doorstep. There are a lot of things that Athos wishes to say, but his words had always been a weapon, never a balm. With a nod he signals the younger man to follow him and it's a testament to the respect d'Artagnan holds for him that he trails after him out into the streets without a question.

Back in the garrison yard where the lanterns were still lit Athos finds his two friends already sitting at their table. He barely acknowledges them and moves to the armory. D'Artagnan follows him in and squints at the rows of weapons.

"Choose one," Athos nods to the wall where the swords are hung.

They are for training the fresh recruits.

"Aramis says I need to let it heal first,"

"You have another arm d'Artagnan or did you forget that?"

The younger man stares, his honest confusion pulls a smile at the corner of Athos' lip and he motions again towards the training swords. A wide grin splits across d'Artagnan's face and he eagerly reaches for a sword with his good arm.

No hesitation at all.

Athos rolls his eyes.

It won't be easy that's clear in the way d'Artagnan grasps the hilt. Athos notes how the younger man tries to adjust his footwork, to find his body's equilibrium, to stop and consciously shift his moves and posture that had up till now been instinctual.

As he disarms the boy again Athos knows it's not like learning from the scratch, it's about going against the grain and learning opposite patterns. But if anyone could do that it would be d'Artagnan and Athos knows that because every time the younger man retrieves his sword the grin on his face remains, the sweat and excursion burns with a sense of direction now.

Behind them Porthos and Aramis watch and Athos knows that they will follow his lead. Porthos would teach their young friend how to overcome his weakness in hand-to-hand fighting and Aramis will help him in keeping a steady aim with his good arm. In time, when the wounded arm would heal Athos dares to hope that d'Artagnan would be able to lift the sword with his other hand as well.

Until then they will focus on what remains.

What they can still do instead of what they can't.

As the sky lightens above and Athos wipes the sweat from his face; he sees how already his protégé stands firmer on his feet.

 _To not yield_

A blessing and a curse he remembers the words.

As d'Artagnan laughs and lunges at him Athos deflects the blow, while behind them Porthos and Aramis place loud bets. As dawn breaks over Paris Athos imagines golden coins spinning on their edges, whirling in the darkness but not alone; they are caught in each others' orbit, spinning around until they fall into a pattern, until they are no longer four coins but one circle.

And that Athos knows is the best that can happen to them.

* * *

 **END**


End file.
